


Infatuation

by kittimau



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Confident Cullen, Cullen Smut, Cullen has a very active imagination, Cullenlingus (Dragon Age), Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Kinky Cullen Rutherford, Male Solo, Masturbation, One Shot, Oral Sex, POV Cullen Rutherford, Pining, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Frustration, Shameless Smut, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Lust, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21872092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittimau/pseuds/kittimau
Summary: The Commander returns to his cabin after a late evening with the Herald and takes matters into his own hands.
Relationships: Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 8
Kudos: 86





	Infatuation

Maker, he’d never get the image out of his mind.

Pouting, full rouge lips. Half-lidded turquoise eyes, accentuated by a thin line of kohl, looking up at him from beneath long, voluminous black lashes. High cheekbones, dusted pink, silver branches weaving toward her temples. Soft silver hair cascading around delicately pointed ears. A heart-shaped face that begged for his hands, his touch, his lips.

She had him. He was lost. Utterly and completely taken, like a young Chantry boy who’d never had a woman before. Innocent, sweet, and yet the most sensual, provocative woman he’d ever encountered. The corporeal embodiment of Desire itself, but… she was heavenly. A deity composed of pure light, grace, and beauty, who somehow oozed raw sex appeal with zero effort.

He’d fled from her cabin, heart racing, and now stood in his own. Back pressed against the door, armor and cloak wrapped in a bundle and gripped tightly to his chest. Wine coursing through his veins, tension pooling low and deep. The image of the Herald with her tunic undone, lying beside him on the bed, her scent, the sound of her sweet, husky laugh...

All culminating with a rush of blood to his rapidly swelling arousal. 

Dragging one hand down his face, he stepped away from the door with an irritated huff. It took little time to place his cloak and armor on its stand, though he tried to do so carefully. He yanked his doublet and tunic over his head, threw them in a pile at the foot of the bed, and kicked off his boots. Fingertips brushing the unwelcome erection as he unlaced his breeches, he groaned, and let the leather drop and pool at his ankles.

His cock strained against the thin material of his smallclothes, thrusting upward toward his bellybutton. He pushed them down and gasped as cold air hit heated flesh. It bounced off his stomach, hard and red. Begging for friction, for pressure. He palmed it briefly, shoulders sagging with relief – though, not nearly enough.

After throwing on a clean pair of sleeping trousers, left unlaced, he collapsed onto the wooden cot. It barely accommodated his six-foot, one-inch height, or his bulk; his feet hung slightly off the edge when he stretched out, its width just as broad as his shoulders. He laid on his stomach and sighed as his face sunk into the thin, lumpy cotton-stuffed pillow, dick pressed tightly, mercifully, between the wool blanket and the trail of dark curls leading down his stomach.

He shouldn’t – he couldn’t consider… He must resist. Steel his heart against the temptations of the wicked. This fire, this burning, unadulterated want buried deep in his gut, it wasn’t right. He’d never desired anyone so _intensely_ , not even... No. Elaria was different.

The Herald of Andraste, _his_ Herald. The beautiful idol of his faith and longing. So far above him, and yet, she’d gone out of her way to comfort him, to care for him, and treated him as an equal – a friend, even.

His pelvis ground unbidden into the stiff mattress and he moaned again. Maker damn him, there would be no sleep tonight. Not like this. Not with her image, her touch seared so deeply into his recent memory. The stiff peaks of her nipples visible through the thin shift that night at the baths. So beautiful, there under the moonlight, like a painting. Face tilted toward the sky, hair dripping onto the shoulders of her coat.

And tonight, with those delicate hands holding his, tender and caring, as she knelt between his knees. Softly humming, kneading his flesh with her thumbs. In his mind, she let go, her hands settled against his thighs, and she looked up with those bright gemstone eyes.

_“How does that feel?” she breathes, squeezing the taut muscle of his upper thighs._

_He moans, “Good. So good.”_

_“Tell me, Cullen…” Oh, the way she says his name! “Do Templars take vows?”_

If he had, they’d have been broken many times over during his nearly decade-long tenure in Kirkwall. Tenuous affairs, never anything meaningful or lasting. Needs of the flesh, which never coincided with those of his heart. More often than not such trysts were rushed, secretive, fleeting. Just people seeking mutual physical comfort while the city fell apart around them.

With his position as Knight-Captain, and later as acting Knight-Commander, relationships were nigh impossible. Still, he was a man, like any other, and he’d sated his lust as any young man would, much less one as inexperienced as he’d been when he first arrived in the Marches.

In the beginning, they were merely desperate attempts to feel something other than the torment that plagued him day and night. Proof that his nightmares were just that – not real. So when he felt Desire creep into his bed each night he’d know. He’d scream, “Leave me!” and wake, sweat-drenched, shaking, sobbing. But he’d be free. Awake, and out of that cage.

He’d clung to the physical realm, and to the numbing blue song of his daily philter, for sanity. Denied his feelings, ignored his trauma. For a very, very long time. Too long…

_“You’re free now,” she whispers. He nods, slow and uncertain, tears lingering in the corners of his eyes._

_“Will you let me take care of you, Commander? Would you like that?”_

_“Sweet Maker, yes."_

_“Tell me what you need.”_

Buttocks clenching, he thrust again into the cot. Inhaled sharply at the bolt of pleasure that shot from his groin straight into his brain, sharp and searing like lightning. His control slipped away as he grunted. Hips rising and falling, cock rubbing urgently between the rough wool and his skin, sweat slowly beginning to drip onto the blanket below. Yes, he was free. Now, here, perhaps things would be different. And _she_ was here.

_“Please…” she whines, rubbing his legs now, from knee to thigh, squeezing gently as she edges closer and closer to his groin on each stroke. “Tell me what you want.”_

_“Take off your clothes. I want to see you.”_

_Crossing her arms to pull the hem from her breeches, she drags it up and over her head. Reaches behind her to tug the laces of her breastband and lets it fall around her waist and into her lap._

_Her breasts are perky, larger than they appeared when hidden by clothing, but not obscenely so. Perfect, just like her, with pink nipples to match the rosy color of her lips. The sensitive points harden under his lustful gaze._

_Rising, she removes her breeches agonizingly slowly, her eyes never leaving his. Slides her smalls down smooth, lean, strong legs. She’s a juxtaposition of hard and soft, of muscle and supple curves._

_“Maker, you are… perfection.”_

_She smiles, kneels, and takes his hand again, the one wrapped in gauze. She holds his forefinger to her lips and_ licks _it. Draws the tip into her mouth and sucks. He’s shaking, watching her with wide eyes. But this is his fantasy. His creation. Yes, he wants this. He wants_ her _, more than anything._

_“I want you to... touch me.”_

_She hums and smiles, pleased with his command. Unlaces his breeches and frees his rock-hard length from the tight, restrictive leather with a gasp and wide eyes. She wraps her strong, slender fingers around his girth – they don’t even touch, he’s so large in her small hands. He’s breathing faster now. She strokes him once, slowly edging back the foreskin from the throbbing head, and searches his face for approval._

_He nods. “Just like that. My beautiful goddess.”_

_She smiles wider, tightens her grip, strokes up, and down again with a slight twist of her wrist, breasts bouncing with every movement._

Hands and shoulders trembling, he flattened his palms against the mattress and flipped over, shoving the sleep trousers around his thighs. His dominant hand shifted down, lazily massaging his aching balls, then back up to grasp his length. Circled the head, slippery with precome, and slid those rough, calloused fingers down the shaft, spreading the moisture with it. Slow, even strokes.

“Yes. Just like that…” he moaned aloud.

_The woman he worships is now worshiping his cock and he’s never felt so blessed. She is truly Maker sent, not a demon of Desire but a spirit of love and beauty. Her gorgeous blue-green eyes bore into his, one hand stroking him and the other cupping his full, heavy sac._

_"Take me in your mouth."_

_She leans forward, wet pink tongue darting out from between those perfect lips to lick a circle around the engorged, near-purple head. Traces the vein along the underside of his thick, heavy cock, hand still pumping in steady, slow strokes._

_“Mm, you taste so good, Commander,” she says, breath hot as it whispers against his length. She opens her mouth, flattens her tongue and slowly envelops the head._

_“Good girl,” he growls, low and hungry. “Deeper.”_

His calloused hand pumped furiously around flesh hard as steel yet smooth as velvet, slick with precome and sweat. The other hand in his hair, pulling, scratching his scalp. It drifted down his face, brushing the stubbly cheek, to his chest. Flicked his left nipple, and pinched _hard_. Crying out, his back arched off the cot, making him thrust into his fist again. He raised his knees; legs spread wider now, planting his feet flat against the mattress.

_Hollowing her cheeks, lips covering her teeth, she sucks, her fist working what can’t fit within her mouth. His hand shoots out, fisting in her hair, and she lets him, moaning around him. She likes it. The rhythm picks up, faster, faster, taking him a little deeper each time._

_“Yes!” he cries, thrusting eagerly now into her mouth, carefully guiding her up and down, and she’s matching the rhythm with each bob of her head. She’s looking into his eyes, her own watering, but a smile playing across her swollen lips even with him drawing between them. She sucks and moans around his cock, electrifying, vibrating through his flesh, stroking faster._

“Oh Maker, oh El–fuuuuck!” he shouted.

_She takes him all the way down until her nose is flush against his curls. He’s hitting the back of her throat, writhing and panting, arse and thighs clenching tight and–_

_He tugs on her hair, not too hard; a warning. “Stop! Stop.”_

_She releases his cock with an obscene, wet “pop!” and pouts. This woman will be the death of him._

Pinching the base, he willed himself to calm. Not yet. Not yet. The hand on his chest moved down to cup his balls again, rolling them soothingly. He resumed his prior movement, setting a leisurely pace now, precome dripping down over his knuckles.

_Pulling her to her feet, he growls, “I want to taste you.”_

_He drops from the bed, onto his own knees, takes one of her legs and hooks it over his shoulder. Presses eager lips to her wet, dripping cunt, and Maker, if he died right now with her slick on his tongue he’d do so as a happy man._

_Her nectar is just like the rest of her – complex, sweet yet salty and tinged with the fruity, floral, woody aroma of her perfume. She’s a garden after a late spring rain, blooming on the tip of his tongue. An oasis in the desert, and he, a man dying of thirst. He laps at her essence, drawing the flat of his tongue against her slit, over and over, until she’s mewling and sobbing and he draws her clit into his mouth and_ sucks _._

_“Cullen! Oh, Cullen, yes!”_

_With one hand gripping her firm, round arse, the other pinching and squeezing her nipples, he holds her tight and lets her ride out her pleasure, grinding hard against his mouth and chin, and he doesn’t let go until she whimpers, pleads, begs for him to stop._

_He rises and sits again on the bed, drawing her into his lap. She straddles him on wobbly legs, breathing heavily, tears streaking down her beautiful face. He lovingly kisses them away, whispering sweet nothings in her ear all the while._

_“So sweet, so perfect. My Herald, my goddess.”_

_Her arms are around his neck now; face buried against his shoulder. Placing a hand on either side of her hips, he raises her gently and lowers her onto his leaking, pulsing cock. She keens, rolls her hips forward to take him deeper, and he thrusts upward once, hard. Then rocks his hips, back and forth, steadily, holding her close so her clit is rubbing against his pelvis._

_“Yes, yes, Cullen, right there, right there! Don’t stop!”_

_Faster now, and she’s matching his pace, her fingers winding through his hair, scratching the base of his skull with her nails, pert arse bouncing hard on his thighs, breasts squished against his chest, her nipples rubbing the hair there._

_It’s building, building, and he’s so close, nearing his release, rutting frantically now. The pressure tightens, like a coil low in his gut, his balls are drawing up and fuck, he’s never been so_ hard _in his_ life _!_

He came, hard and loud, spurting hot ropes of seed across his taut, naked abdomen, fist still pumping his cock, slower now, drawing out every drop, working him through the intensity of his orgasm. He squeezed his eyes shut, gasping for breath, his body and the sheets beneath it soaked with sweat.

“Maker’s breath… oh holy… Andraste… take me,” he panted, throwing his left arm over his damp forehead. “Make me… to rest… in the warmest… places…”

He released his swiftly softening length and took a deep breath. That was… Guilt washed over him instantly, shocking and cold like a midnight plunge into the icy lake beyond Haven’s walls.

Oh, this was not good. This was, in fact, very, very bad. What had he just done? Even inebriated, there was no excuse. How would he face her now? How would he look her in the eyes?

Groaning, he swung his legs over the side of the cot, went to the basin at the other end of the room and cleaned himself, hissing as the cold wet rag dragged across his skin. What a weak, pitiful man. Over a decade of strict discipline and he can’t keep his hands off his cock, can’t keep a woman he barely knows out of his head. If he wasn’t unworthy of her before, he definitely was now.

But Void take him, he was infatuated. With the Herald of Andraste, no less! No, this was not good at all.

**Author's Note:**

> From Chapter 7 of my longfic [The Common Tongue](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21613552/chapters/51538498). 
> 
> Cullen's view of Elaria is highly biased at this early point in their relationship - she's still a person to him, but she's also his Herald, and thus there's a lot of "idol worship" going on. To him, she is perfection personified. But he will have to learn to accept her flaws, to see beyond the veil of her title and beauty, to truly know _her_.
> 
> If you'd like to receive updates for my works, please [subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittimau/profile)! 
> 
> Have questions or comments? Want to chat about DA or writing? Find me on [Tumblr](https://kittimau.tumblr.com) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/kittimau1)! 😊❤


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